


The Road Before Us

by megnlv



Series: Modern Civilians AU [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, Family Drama, Fluff, Jewish Mercy, Marriage Proposal, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7992061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megnlv/pseuds/megnlv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sounds simple, doesn’t it, this notion of simplicity? Simple things done simply by a simple person. But it’s not as simple as it seems.” - Fennel Hudson</p><p>The one where Angela and Fareeha's domestic lives are turned upside down when Fareeha's absentee mother suddenly shows up at their doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second part of my Civilian's AU. The first one centers around Widow/Reaper friendship and it isn't necessary to read to understand this one but it would give further insight to the other characters and the little au world that I've built for them! You should mostly know however, that ages have been altered (Angela and Fareeha are 29 and 27 respectively) and it is set in Gibraltar.
> 
> WARNING: There is a sex scene ahead my friends, and while it isn't that explicit and doesn't take up a large portion of the chapter, young readers and anyone who may feel uncomfortable should glance away when that time comes.

The first thing she thinks of when she falls face first into her bed is that she deserves a break.

How many hours has she been up? She figures it must be just a little under 48, and the only reason she hasn’t passed out in the middle of work or started hallucinating was because she’s had approximately 15 cups of coffee in her system. It was a miracle she had no operations scheduled; just a long few nights of slaving over a paramount breakthrough in her research that was too significant to sleep on. Her hands were too unsteady to perform surgery on anybody without risking their lives.

She had promised Fareeha earlier that she would take frequent naps in the break room whenever she got the chance.

She didn’t lie. She just...forgot.

Angela weakly kicks her shoes off of her feet, and they clatter against the wooden floor at the foot of her bed. Her arms wind beneath the pillow, and she releases a soft breath through parted lips, snuggling her face further into the fabric as if she wished to disappear into it.

It was four in the afternoon. Fareeha would be back from her shift at the military base around six, and as much as Angela would love to see her girlfriend after almost three whole days of being separated because of work, she knows that she has at least 10 minutes before she passes out, and that she would likely sleep until the early morning. So Angela sighs, reaching lethargically for her cellphone in her pants pocket and brings it into her view, seeking out Fareeha’s name in her prior messages. The screen is blinding against her hazy vision.

 **Angela (+011)**  
I’m home. Ich liebe dich. - A.

She presses send, lets her phone fall against the mattress by her face and tucks her arm back beneath her pillow. Angela closes her eyes, allowing her body to relax for the first time in days, and lets herself drift into a heavy sleep.

A loud clash jolts her awake hours later, and when she opens her eyes, moonlight spills through the curtains of her bedroom window, slicing her bedroom in halves. Angela feels a lot like there is an elephant sitting atop her head, mind swimming with grogginess, woken from her sleep much too early to be properly rested. A plethora of curses follows the clanging outside of her bedroom, and her brows dip forward in befuddled confusion.

It takes a lot for her to get up from bed when all she wants to do is sink into the mattress and sleep forever. And, she realizes, she’s a lot more comfortable than she was before - which meant Fareeha must have come in and slipped her into her slightly too big grey pajama bottoms, decorated with tiny blue birds, and tucked the blanket over her while she was sleeping. She pulls back the covers and unsteadily rises to her feet, rubbing the heel of her palm over her eye as she opens the bedroom door and trudges along the hallway to the source of the noise.

Fareeha is in the kitchen, knelt on the ground, picking up an assortment of fallen pots and pans and muttering to herself. She glances up when she hears Angela come in, and her cheeks bloom red.

“Ya amar,” Fareeha says, rising to her feet. One of her hands rubs at the back of her neck sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I tripped, and-”

“It’s alright,” Angela says softly, and despite her exhaustion there’s a small smile that uplifts the corners of her mouth. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” Fareeha waves her worry off dismissively, and then raises one of the frying pans. The metal is a bit bent and misshapen from hitting the ground. “Although, this didn’t survive the fall. And neither did my pancakes.”

Angela rounds the kitchen island to get a closer look, and sure enough, there is a mess of half-cooked pancakes splattered on their kitchen floor. She can’t suppress the amused giggles that rise in her throat, and hides her smile behind her fingers. “Oh, Fareeha,” she sighs. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m sure they would have turned out delicious.”

Her girlfriend shrugs, placing the bent pan onto the counter and grabbing a few paper towels to clean up the mess on the floor and toss it into the garbage. “I had a craving for them all day, but I guess I’m not having breakfast for a late dinner tonight after all,” she says. “You should go back to sleep, Angel. I’m sorry again for waking you up. I tried to be quiet, but I guess my feet didn’t seem to get the memo.”

“You did a good job being quiet when you put me in my pajamas,” Angela teases, sitting on the barstool at the kitchen island. She rests her chin on her fist, watches as Fareeha’s blush deepens over brown cheeks. “I can sleep later. For now, I think I’d like to spend the rest of the night with my beautiful girlfriend, who I haven’t properly seen in days, and make some more pancakes with her at-” Her eyes find the digital clock on the stove, “-8:30 PM.”

“Oh?” Fareeha laughs, deep, and it’s music to Angela’s ears. “I thought you preferred waffles over pancakes.”

“I’ll settle if that means I get to spend time with you.”

“Smooth,” she says, wrinkling her nose adorably. “Come on, then. You can tell me all about your important research while we make a mess out of our kitchen.”

Angela quirks a brow delicately. “You really want me to tell you about my work? I may bore you.”

Fareeha’s lips form a smile that lights up her face; two rows of stark white teeth, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly. Angela’s heart flutters in her chest at the sight of it. “Of course I want to hear about it,” she says. “I might not understand more than half of it, but I doubt you’ll bore me, Angel. You have no idea how adorable you get when you’re talking about something that you’re passionate about.”

“Is that so?” Angela asks, watching as Fareeha rinsed off the bent pan in the sink, her lower lip between her teeth.

“Mhm,” Fareeha hums, nodding. “Your eyes light up and your voice gets a little higher than usual. Sometimes you switch between German and English and you won't even realize it.” She turns over her shoulder, looking matter-of-fact. “Trust me, I can listen to you talk all night long.”

She says it with such nonchalance and genuinity that Angela has no doubt.

Fareeha is much better at cooking than Angela is, by a landslide. She finds that she is better with preparing salad bowls and sandwiches and putting things in the microwave than actually taking the time to perfect a full out meal, no matter how many times her Aunt has tried to teach her while growing up - too invested in her studies to bother actually learning proper cooking techniques.

So it is needless to say that Fareeha is the one who does a huge portion of the cooking while Angela likely talks her ears off with medical terminologies and theories. And, after not doing much of anything else, Angela sidles up behind her as she is stirring another batter mix, reaching beneath her arm to dip her finger into the bowl and promptly wiping a glop of it onto her nose.

Her girlfriend jerks back and turns halfway over her shoulder instinctively, but the laugh, loud and real, that follows it is contagious. Some of the batter drips onto Fareeha’s mouth and chest at the movement, and Angela giggles, stands on her tiptoes to lean forward and close the gap between them.

Almost everything about Fareeha was rough. The scars on her body and the callus on her hands, the brash way she spoke when she was angry, the bruised knuckles from not wearing protective gloves at the gym. But her lips are soft, wet with the taste of salt and traces of uncooked pancake batter. Angela’s eyes close automatically, fingertips featherlight against the smooth skin of Fareeha’s cheek. Fareeha’s lips respond against her own, gliding together familiar and warm and right.

When they pull away, their mouths making a soft noise as they part, Angela realizes, not for the first time, that Fareeha is someone she would very much like to spend the rest of her life with.

* * *

 **Angela (+011)**  
Hello Jack! Are you busy tomorrow? - A

 **Jack (+574)**  
Nope. What's up buttercup

 **Angela (+011)**  
Oh, wonderful :-)  
I was wondering if you'd like to take a trip to the jewelry store with me? I could use a second opinion on something. - A.

 **Jack (+574)**  
What do you want there that you think I could help you with lol  
Wait  
Is it what I think it is

 **Angela (+011)**  
So will you come with me? - A.

 **Jack (+574)**  
HOLY SHIT IT IS WHAT I THINK IT IS  
I'll come by to pick you up at 1!

* * *

When they first met, Fareeha had told her: _I’m going to be a hero one day._

Angela, then twenty-two years old and pushing to attend medical school early and ahead of all of her classmates, responded in kind with a humble smile and said: _I believe you._

It was a conversation that had sparked the beginning of the most random of friendships, which didn’t happen very often for Angela during college; too absorbed in her uncompromising studies to make much of a social life outside of her usual circle of friends. But Fareeha had become something of an encouraging presence in life - two and a half years younger and full of supportive energy.

Together they often lifted each other’s spirits when their course work got too hard, and when Fareeha left to start anew with a military career, following in her mother’s footsteps, Angela was right in her corner backing her up every step of the way. When their friendship turned to relationship was a little fuzzy, but their feelings for each other have always been very steadfast. Between bootcamp and deployments and medical school, Angela was once crestfallen to think that it would flounder - but, as fate would have it, Fareeha jumped through hoops to keep her company, and Angela fell further and further in love, completely head-over-heels hopeless.

Now they were here, years later, arm in arm and feeling at home among their friends and each other at Jack’s shore house in early April, where he was hosting a late night bonfire - just because he could. Jack was in the middle of telling the pair of them, a near empty plastic cup in his hand, that he was planning another party nearly nine whole months ahead of time for his upcoming 29th birthday, which he shared with Amélie on the tenth of September. While Angela thinks he’s getting a little ahead of himself, she smiles and laughs anyway at his grandiose ideas.

Lena and Lúcio, one of her best friends that she’s long ago introduced to everyone, were chattering away with one another by the table of snacks, filling their plates to the brim with picky finger food, their laughter boisterous and their happiness contagious to the other surrounding guests that crowd around them.

Gabriel and Amélie were seated at the fire, an orange glow cast over their dark-clad figures, nursing their drinks in their hands and arguing over their typical takeout orders for possibly the millionth time since becoming roommates, their voices carrying just over the bluetooth speaker behind them and right into Angela’s earshot;

“You’re French. Aren’t you supposed to like cheese?”

“I do. That atrocity of a pizzeria would not know authentic cheese if someone slapped them in the face with it. It is like _cardboard._ ”

Angela has never seen Gabriel look more offended in her life, and she watches as Amélie’s lips curl into a devious smirk. “Smugness causes wrinkles, you know,” Gabriel growls, face twisting into a sneer.

Amélie looks relatively unphased. “Oh, was I being smug?” She asks. “Désolée, I thought I was just being _right_.”

Beside her, Fareeha turns her head and looks down at her with a crooked smile. Angela feels warmth blossom in her chest, because although they’ve been together for years, that smile is one of her most favorite things on earth, and she will never stop falling endlessly in love with it, over and over and over. She leans into her side, mouth lifting to return it...and then she catches the knowing glint in Jack’s eyes and Angela is suddenly very hyper aware of the ring that has made home in the pocket of her jacket for the past several weeks.

One part of her has been rationalizing that the only reason why she was waiting was because she wanted it to feel right, and was waiting for the best possible opportunity. The other part, however, figures it's just because she was too nervous. Angela could spend hours in the operating room, someone's life literally in her hands, but the thought of getting down on one knee and asking Fareeha to marry her was enough to make Angela sick with nerves.

No matter how much mental preparation she went over in her head, Angela just couldn’t gather up the confidence.  

They end up leaving the party early, with the excuses of work early in the morning, and Angela forgets all about that astute look that Jack was giving her all night when they tumble to their bed, slightly tipsy, kissing with sloppy fervor and shredding articles of clothing the entire way.

One kiss leads to another, and Angela can feel herself slipping further and further from coherency, her only thought the woman beside her, all others fizzling and dying away.

Fareeha’s hands descend to slide over the jut of Angela’s bare hips, palms pressing against pale skin, drawing her in impossibly close. Angela moves against her thigh, heat blooming across her face and chest, her breaths leaving her as muted hums against Fareeha’s lips. She moves rhythmically, driven by desperation and pleasure pooling in her stomach, her hands gripping at her girlfriend’s waist and shoulder as they rock against one another; familiar and slow moving, open mouthed kisses and breathy moans. Fareeha whispers Angela’s name along her skin like a prayer, over and over, until their bodies tremble and their grips tighten, finality in the keening noise that drags from Angela’s throat and the shuddering, gasping breaths that pass the sliver between Fareeha’s parted lips.

When it is over they lay side by side, naked bodies polished with sweat and white sheets tousled beneath them. Angela stares up at the bland ceiling, cheeks flushed red, taking a moment to catch her breath while Fareeha traces indistinguishable patterns over the skin of her forearm.

Angela, after a moment, turns so she is lying on her side, languid smile on her face. Fareeha is gazing at her with half-lidded eyes in a way that makes her stomach turn, mouth curved to return the smile, and Angela’s hand reaches out to cup the warmth of her cheek.

 _Tomorrow. A romantic home cooked meal, wine and some music_ , Angela thinks, the pad of her thumb brushing over the tattoo beneath Fareeha’s eye, a content smile on her lips. _Tomorrow is the day I ask her to marry me._

As it turns out, it is the **not** the day she asks Fareeha to marry her.

She gets home from an early morning shift around six thirty and, after a quick shower and getting ready, immediately begins to cook Fareeha’s favorite dish before she arrives home; being held overtime for oddly unspecific reasons. Angela sheds her tiredness from being on her feet all day long - she was called into work for a five hour emergency surgery at 4 in the morning that saved a young man’s life and was needed on deck in the E.R a few hours before her shift ended - to prepare the meal, that could very well be the one that would be the marker of change for the rest of her life.

Of course, a home cooked meal cannot just be placed in the microwave and heated up before serving, so Angela has enlisted the help of several cookbooks for beginners and five-starred online recipes, which she follows to a T, even asking Gabriel for the perfect flavoring tips. It can’t be anything less than perfect, and Angela feels a little overwhelmed with how much she actually has to do all at once, which she finds absolutely absurd because she is a doctor and a damn good one at that.

Angela is in the middle of pouring steaming noodles in the sink strainer, faint German music playing from her phone on the counter, when the doorbell rings. Her brows furrow.

“Just a moment!” She calls over her shoulder, setting the pot on the stove and removing the oven mitts. She gives everything a quick once over before making her way to the door, blowing blonde fringe from her eyes as she opens it. “Did you forget your keys again, lieb-”

Her words die in her throat when she sees that it is not, in fact, Fareeha at all.

The woman in the corridor stands at Angela’s height, wearing a blue hijab of silk over braided white-gray hair. Her right eye is covered with a black patch and beneath the other, the hue of molten gold, is a symbol Angela recognizes with a jolt as an Eye of Horus. A gray eyebrow raises, a twitch more than anything, that one eye giving her a critical glance over. Before Angela’s lips can even part, the woman before her curves her mouth into an amused grin, and says in an accented voice as smooth as velvet: “Well, you are not who I was expecting.”

Angela has seen only a few select pictures of Fareeha’s absentee mother, but it had been back when age has not touched her, deepened the laugh lines on her lovely face. But she is very, _very_ certain that she was here, standing at the doorstep of her condo.

_Mein Gott._

“Neither are you,” Angela says, finally finding her voice. She clears her throat, thin fingers tightening around the doorknob. She tries to squash down the sudden nervous flutter in her stomach.

“I was under the impression that Fareeha Amari lived here,” the older woman explains, and Angela does not miss the way her eye flickers over Angela’s shoulder, briefly peering inside her apartment. “My mistake.”

“She does live here,” Angela responds. “Are you…?”

The older woman gives her a wan smile. “My name is Ana,” she says with finality. “Ana Amari.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit I had a little trouble writing Fareeha, but I'm not too sure why. I hope that I did her justice (haha, get it? justice) though and made her characterization believable! Also, Angela 100% types like a 50 yr old Mom and signs every single one of her texts. You can't convince me otherwise. 
> 
> Feedback is really appreciated and encouraged! I love hearing back from you guys, and it motivates me to keep writing for the fandom, so please leave a comment if you liked it and want to see more! Any translation mistakes can be blamed on google.
> 
> Find me @ madame-lacroix on tumblr!!! x


	2. Chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela has a weird few days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little more Mercy centric, but I promise the next one will have a lot more Fareeha in it.
> 
> And, as it turns out, binging Greys Anatomy is a great motivator to write anything concerning everyone's favorite doctor.

Fareeha’s duffle bag drops at her feet the minute she walks through the door. “ _Mother?_ ”

Ana rises from the couch without a sound. A gentle smile touches her aged face. “Hello, Fareeha.”

The tension between the two women is almost unbearable at best. Fareeha has yet to take another step inside, coffee colored eyes round, and Angela has half a mind to slink from the room as quietly as possible as to not be noticed, though that was not particularly advisable. Perhaps it was best that she was present, just in case she needed to act as the mediator if things did not go favorably.

“So. Dating a German, I see?” Ana chortles, taking the initiative to continue talking when Fareeha says nothing else. The whole time she has been here, there has been nothing but an air of nonchalance about her. Angela can see that there is a layer of apprehension beneath that mask, though she hides it very well.

Angela, standing off toward the side and out of the way, tries her best not to seem offended at the aloof comment while Fareeha looks as if her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth, frozen in her place. “Swiss German, actually,” Angela corrects, clearing her throat softly. She feels a bit awkward, as if she shouldn’t be there, invading in what should have been a private conversation.  

“Looks like we have something in common.” Ana’s words are directed to her daughter.

Fareeha’s jaw sets, shoulders rigid. “What are you doing here, mother?” It is clear she has no interest in making small talk.

“Did you get my letter?” Ana asks, the corner of her mouth wilting into a soft frown. “I sent one weeks ago.”

That catches Angela’s attention. Blue eyes slide from the older woman to her girlfriend, the spitting image of her mother, standing at attention in front of their open door and looking both like she wanted to run and pull Ana into a hug and a little like she would rather be anywhere else but here. Angela sympathizes through her curiosity, but feels a little hurt that Fareeha hadn’t said anything to her about receiving any letter.

“Last week,” Fareeha says. Her voice is authoritative, no nonsense, no room for argument. It was the voice she often used around her coworkers and superior officers. “You said nothing of showing up at my apartment unannounced. Not to mention, it hardly explained why you disappeared for fifteen years and let me believe that you were dead. You let me _mourn_ you, and all you do is send me a letter.”

Ana winces at that, although minutely. “You must understand-”

“Understand?” Fareeha asks, laughing humorlessly. She shakes her head, the beads in her hair clicking slightly at the movement, and draws in a long breath through her nose. “I think you should go, mother. We will talk, we _need_ to talk, but right now I just - I can’t talk to you right now.”

Her mother looks as though she wants to fight it. To stand her ground and explain herself for being gone all of those years. Angela doesn’t peg her as the type to give up. Yet, after an uncomfortably long beat of silence, Ana’s shoulders visibly slouch forward, and she accepts her defeat, figuring it best to not push and give her daughter space lest she drive her further away. Angela watches as she nods, lips pressed in a thin line. “I will go,” she says, and then raises her chin, looking melancholic. “I will see you soon, habibti.”

With that, she makes to leave, reluctantly brushing passed Fareeha and closing the apartment door behind her. Silence follows the wake of her absence and Fareeha’s shoulders lose the tension in them, but she does not move from her place, her feet planted firm on the floor. Angela feels at a loss of what to do, gaze lingering on the closed door for just a moment longer before meeting her girlfriend’s.

“Schatz?” She takes a step forward, voice hesitant.

Fareeha blinks, as if pulled from a trance, and turns her head toward the kitchen. Various pots and pans are spread out along the countertops, the food having long ago gone cold, and an uncorked bottle of expensive red wine imported from Switzerland. “What’s all this for?” She asks, one eyebrow quirked, although it is obvious her mind is elsewhere.

“No reason,” Angela says quietly, her eyes scanning over the half prepared meal with a sigh. “No reason at all.”

They don’t talk about it after that. Angela finishes preparing the meal with Fareeha’s help, though the taller woman is content on doing so in silence, and they make awkward small talk while they eat. Angela’s curiosity gnaws away at her the entire time, but every chance she gets to ask, she can’t get the words out, and they wither and die away in at the tip of her tongue. Fareeha tries her best to act like the mother she hadn’t seen in years wasn’t just standing in their living room not thirty minute ago, but Angela knew that it was bothering her more than she let on.

And the next morning, Angela wakes up alone and to a yellow post-it note on Fareeha’s pillow that says:

_Went to the gym before work. I may be home late. I love you. - Pharah._

So she spends the afternoon of her day off with Amélie while Fareeha is off avoiding life at work, out on the balcony of her condo. She and Fareeha both made enough money between the two of them to snatch a spacious condo in the hills, overlooking a plethora of palm trees and fancy, modernized houses.

Months ago, when Amélie was still with Gérard, they’d only lived a few blocks away from each other. Now, Amélie had traveled a good 30 minutes minus traffic delays from her apartment in Ocean Village with Gabriel, and sat in the chair adjacent to her, looking as flawlessly elegant as usual with her long legs crossed and a cigarette burning between her fingers, bug-eyed sunglasses guarding her eyes. She looks every bit like a striking model who’d accidentally wandered onto Angela’s balcony while searching for a photoshoot, and Angela, although not a fan of her smoking habits with her heart condition, briefly thinks that if her passion was not for her dancing, she could have pursued a successful fashion modeling career.

“My job is to help people,” Angela says, fingers fiddling with the Star of David around her neck out of nervous habit. “That’s all I do, every day of my life. And I want so badly to be able to help Fareeha, but now I have no idea how. How do you even _assuage_ this kind of thing?”

“It is a fragile situation,” Amélie says smoothly, exhaling a lungful of smoke. It catches with the breeze, drifting away from Angela’s face. “She just needs time to register everything.”

“Yes, but I should be able to be there for her. To at least know what to say,” Angela responds, a hint of her frustration at herself leaking into her tone.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Amélie raises her sunglasses on top of her head, pinning back strands of long dark hair that is down from its usual ponytail. She looks bored, which was not at all unusual and typically meant that she was in a good mood. “Sometimes all you need to do is listen. Sometimes that is more than enough.”

Angela sighs, her eyes finding the hilltops solemnly. “I am a woman of action,” she says.

“As am I,” Amélie muses, smoke billowing out with her words. She leans forward, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray and dusting off her hands. Black fingernails trace lightly over the large tattoo wrapped around her right forearm. “And I am telling you, sœur, listening may mean more to Fareeha than nonsense words of comfort will. She needs you, and you can be there for her by letting her confide in you. But, I suppose you know her better than I do, so do what you feel is best.”

 _I was going to propose,_ Angela almost says, but the words die in her throat, she stays quiet. There was no need for her to go telling everybody that they knew lest someone accidentally say something. Jack was the only one who had the privilege of knowing, and that is just because he had given her a second opinion on the engagement ring.

When it’s close to eight, Amélie departs with the promise to hang again soon, and she leaves Angela with a kiss on both cheeks minutes before Fareeha arrives home.

Her hair is pulled back into a military-esque bun, face etched into a scowl that was likely there all day long. She drops a duffle bag of her belongings on the floor besides the door, which she shuts carelessly with her boot, and makes a beeline for the couch. Angela watches from the kitchen, where she was chopping up cherry tomatoes for a salad, as she drops down into the cushions with a sigh and drags her hands over her tired face.

“Long day, liebling?” Angela asks carefully, kitchen knife hovering over a tomato.

“Mother showed up at base this morning,” Fareeha says, reaching to untie her boots. She knew well how Angela disliked shoes being worn inside the house. “To say hello to all my superiors, because she worked with them back in the day, but mostly because she wanted to pry into my business and embarrass me. Typical mother, showing up after years of not being around just to stick her nose in places where it doesn’t belong.”

Angela thinks back to Amélie's advice, and gently lowers the kitchen knife on the counter to take a seat at Fareeha’s right on the couch.

Her girlfriend stares ahead of her, at the blank television screen, and the look in her dark eyes suggests that she is miles away. Angela reaches to gently take one of her hands, rough from callus, in her lap, and watches as Fareeha shifts to intertwine their fingers - an anchor from her drifting thoughts. She raises their joined hands, warm and settled in familiarity, and bows her head to press a soft kiss to her knuckles. It’s meant to be a comfort, a reassurement that she was here for her, and Fareeha seems to understand it.

“I just wish she understood that things can’t just go back to normal just like that,” Fareeha mutters, rubbing her thumb over Angela’s. Their entwined hands rest on top of Fareeha’s thigh. “She disappeared because she was embarrassed and ashamed, and now that she’s regained some sense of self she thinks it’s all well and good to just come back like she was never gone. Like I didn’t have to take care of myself for years. Can she not see how unfair her coming back like this is?”

She takes a moment to contemplate her thoughts, pursing her lips. While she was heeding the advice to listen, she couldn’t simply stay quiet. That was not in Angela’s nature. “Maybe she cannot see it,” she says, inching forward so that they’re legs are touching. “People can often be blind that way.”

Fareeha’s chest heaves with a sigh. “She made me think that her leaving was my fault.” She shakes her head, meets Angela’s eyes for the first time that evening. There was such emotion in them that it was almost staggering to see. “All those years that she was gone I wondered what I did wrong to make her leave me, and she let me sit there, trying to pick up the pieces. How could she think that I could live without her?”

“But you did,” Angela tells her softly. “And here you are.”

“I’m sorry, ya amar,” Fareeha says suddenly. “About not saying anything about the letter she sent me. And, really, I shouldn’t be complaining about my family problems when…” She trails off, but the implication is clear.

That smarts a little, and Angela resists flinching. “It’s alright, schatz,” she reassures, squeezing her fingers. “You’re allowed to complain all you like. You are your own person with your own struggles, and they matter just as much as mine do. Please, don’t feel like you shouldn’t or can’t talk about this with me. It’s easier to share the burden between two than to shoulder it all by yourself.”

Fareeha inclines her head, expression softening considerably. “Thank you,” she says genuinely. “I love you.” The words roll from her tongue so smoothly, like liquid, and Angela’s shoulders relax with a sigh.

“I love you too.”

-

It was a bad day.

Angela was a gifted surgeon, an expert in her craft, and prided herself in each of her successes. She makes complicated procedures look routine and completes them with confidence and ease. Her work hardly ever leaves a noticeable scar. She performs the impossible, and more often than not, she succeeds. Angela was, confidently, one of the top doctors at St. Mercy’s Hospital, a feat for her age. There was a reason why she graduated medical school ahead of all of her peers, after all.

But, even considering all of that, Angela Ziegler was not a miracle worker.

She knew she cannot play God in the operating room. That often did more harm than it did good.

One of the very first things you learn in your internship is that there are some patients that are beyond the point of help - generally, resident and attending doctors assign impossible cases to their interns just to get the point across that not everybody could be saved. Angela prefers to remain on the optimistic side, never one to think of her patients as a lost cause. They were human beings, with their lives ahead of them and people that loved them, and so she takes every loss to heart, even if she knows that there was nothing more that she could do for them.

It was an all hands on deck situation in the emergency room. Seven teenagers piled into a tiny Honda Civic that had gotten into an accident in the middle of a highway, going over 75 mph through an onslaught of rain. The paramedics had pronounced two of them dead on scene, the rest in startlingly critical condition, including the family of four in the vehicle that had been hit. Six of them died under her care. Six. Including a child who was only ten years old, and had just barely started living.

The Head of Trauma had rested his reassuring hand on her shoulder and told her that they were all too far gone to be saved, that she did everything she could - which, she did; she’d given chest compressions to a young man for over thirty minutes to try and revive him, with no luck. Angela knew that it was true, but their blood stained her hands and her scrubs, and it did not make it any less harder to call time of death.

Every doctor has that one patient that they could not save, who’s face would haunt them for the rest of their life. Angela was no exception. And she didn’t think she would ever forget the looks on the parents faces when she told them that their children were dead.

It was a _really_ bad day.

After taking a scalding hot shower in the locker room, Angela had drawn her hair into her usual ponytail and exited the hospital without looking back. And instead of going home to an empty apartment to be painstakingly alone with her thoughts until Fareeha came home from work, Angela went to the grocery store to occupy herself, trying and failing to keep her mind off of her lost patients as she went down a mental list of items they were short on at home and stuffed them all into a metal cart.

She arrives home around two in the afternoon, grocery bags hanging off of her arms as she unsteadily reaches to unlock the door to her condo. Angela closes it behind her with her foot, and she takes only two steps toward her kitchen when she hears:

“Need an extra set of hands?”

Angela near enough jumps out of her skin in surprise, the grocery bag containing a gallon of milk falling from her hand as it flies up to her heart, where it beat wildly in her chest. “ _Scheisse!_ ” She swears, whirling around to find the source of the voice.

Ana Amari, standing in front of the double glass doors to their balcony with a cup of steaming tea in her hands, looks unapologetic. Her smile is soft, laugh lines prominent on her aging face. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, Doctor.” Her eye flickers to the carton of milk that Angela had dropped, which was leaking rapidly onto the wooden floor at her feet. “I must say I didn’t expect...that.”

“Well, _I_ didn’t expect there to be anyone in my home when I got back,” Angela replies, shooting her an impassive look as she hurries to grab a few paper towels. She places the rest of her groceries onto the counter before moving to clean up the mess - irritation simmering through her veins, stemming mostly from her already sour mood. She’d only bought one gallon; she’d have to ask Fareeha to pick another up on the way home. “How did you get in, exactly?”

“That small man downstairs recognized me,” Ana says with a shrug, raising the mug to her lips. “He let me up.”

 _Breaking into our apartment and drinking all of our tea,_ Angela thinks bitingly, grimacing at the mess she was cleaning up. She would have to thank the landlord later for aiding her near heart attack and for the short lived gallon of milk that was currently seeping into the wooden floor. She’ll have to spray so it won’t end up making their apartment smell rotten. “Fareeha will be home at six,” she informs. “It’s only three.”

“I know that.” Ana chuckles dryly. “I didn’t come to see Fareeha. I came to speak with you.”

“Oh?”

“I admit I’m surprised you aren’t working,” the older woman comments. “Regardless, apologies for the milk. I can give you money for a new one.”

“Long shift last night. I am not on call anymore.” Angela rises to her feet, picking up the near empty carton and placing it onto the counter. She drops the dripping paper towels into the garbage beneath the sink before she turns to face her girlfriend’s mother, hands at her hips. She doesn’t feel much for explaining that she had just spent a 32 hour shift losing six patients at the hospital. “What is it that you need to talk to me about?”

“Your designs on my daughter,” Ana says smoothly, approaching the kitchen island. She sets the cup of tea down, staring her right in the face, as if sizing her up. She is an intimidating woman, there is no doubt about that, but Angela was not easily thrown or disconcerted - not when she had spent her entire career fighting to be at the top of her field in a workplace dominated by men who felt that her successes were inferior to them just because she was a woman.

The comment is simple enough though, understandable coming from any parent, but Angela’s eyebrows raise nevertheless. “My designs?” She asks incredulously. “Fareeha and I have been together for nearly six years.”

“No ring yet?” Ana asks, shooting a glance at Angela’s left hand that doesn’t go unnoticed. “No big fancy wedding I’m sure you can afford, or grandchildren to give me?”

Angela’s cheeks redden - whether it is out of embarrassment or out of anger, she isn’t sure. “I’m sorry, but you’ve only just come back and you’re already asking about marriage and grandchildren? Four days ago you didn’t even know that I existed in your daughter’s life,” she says, unafraid to stand her ground. “But if you must know, we’re comfortable as things are right now.” Angela purposely keeps out the fact that there was currently a wedding ring inhabiting one of her coat pockets. That was no one’s business but her own.

Until the day it wouldn’t be. Which she was intending on being soon.

Somehow, though, asking Fareeha to marry her days after her absentee mother shows up on their doorstep seems a bit ill-advised.

“Forgive me for being curious,” Ana says, raising her shoulders in a careless shrug. As nonchalant as she seems, Angela feels a bit like an insect under her stare. “I am merely asking. I don’t expect answers from Fareeha, seeing as my own daughter seems to hate me-”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Angela interrupts suddenly, overcome with a surge of emotion. “But honestly, she should.”

Ana seems to flare up at the comment, but Angela has a fire of her own.

“It’s alright for her to hate you,” she says, one of her hands curling into a ball at her side. Angela raises her chin with a hint of defiance, meeting the one calculating eye of her girlfriend’s mother, her own stinging with unshed tears she could not prevent. When she speaks again, her voice is compressed with anger she had long ago stocked away. “When my parents died, I hated them for it. I was alone, and I _hated_ them. But that wasn’t their fault; you _chose_ to leave Fareeha. She relied on you, she needed her mother, but you weren’t there. You were selfish, and you disappeared on her and left a little girl alone when she needed you the most! So yes, she should hate you. She has every right to. But she doesn’t.”

The older woman stares at her for a very long time, no doubt going over all the ways that she could kill her and make it look like an accident or something of self defense. Angela finds herself frustrated at how unreadable her expression is; how infuriatingly stoic and barren of any emotion that she can decipher.

Angela’s fingernails dig into her palm - she’s angry, she’s angry for Fareeha and a little for herself, from all the years she spent pretending she didn’t harbor any resentment to her parents for making her an orphan at age 14. She’s angry that Ana could stand there before her and seem so stony-eyed, her tattoo of protection glistening ink black against the dark skin of her face, and seem like she didn’t care at all when Fareeha was near enough ripping herself apart.

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady the way her fists are shaking at her sides, and schools her expression into professionalism, a mask she often wore at her work. “It may not be my place to intervene, but I couldn’t stay silent. Not when you hurt the woman that I love.”

“No,” Ana says, _finally,_ giving a slight nod of her head. “You are right, Doctor.”

This catches Angela off guard. She blinks, light brows dipping forward. She had been expecting a fight.

“There is nothing that I can do to take back all the years that I have missed.” There is raw emotion in Ana’s smooth voice, undeniable and authentic. “I love my daughter. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of her, or regret staying away from her for so long. All I want is the best in life for her, and that was something I could not give her at that point in my life. She has made the most of her life without me. She did that all by herself.”

“I think that is something you should be telling Fareeha instead of me,” Angela says quietly. Her fingers uncurl from their fists, and she leans her hip against the side of the kitchen island, arms folding over her chest. “You two will need to have this conversation eventually.”

Ana hums in acknowledgment, a deep sound in her throat. “It does not seem like Fareeha wants to talk with me,” she says. “She’s been avoiding me since I arrived.”

“Fareeha isn’t avoiding you,” Angela responds. “Not on purpose. She just...doesn’t know how to approach you.”

Silence beats between the two woman, and it is neither comfortable nor is it uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” Angela says languidly, pressing her palm against her forehead and briefly closing her eyes. “This wasn’t exactly how I expected to be getting along with my girlfriend’s mother. You just caught me at a bad time.”

“Maybe we could all go out for dinner,” Ana suggests, and that air of indifference is back, as if she hadn’t nearly gotten choked up minutes ago. “Once things are settled between my daughter and I. It can be a...fresh start for the three of us.”

Angela stares at her, weighing the pros and cons of agreeing before ultimately nodding, finding enough energy in her to smile softly at the older woman. “I think that would be nice.”

Ana returns the smile pleasantly. It is much warmer than she expected, motherly, and less guarded. “I believe I should go buy you some more milk, then,” she says, gesturing to the near empty carton on the counter. Angela is inclined to agree, but doesn’t say so out of politeness, and instead watches in silence as Ana squeezes her arm and makes her way out of the apartment without another word.

It was a bad day.

Correction: It was a _weird_ day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Ana and Pharah but it seems like I am terrible at writing both of them. And I tried to resist but my ass needs to add Widow in basically everything that I write, lol. (Was that an Anahardt reference in the beginning of this chapter? You bet.)
> 
> Please leave your thoughts in a review! I appreciate the kudos but I would love to hear what you think :)
> 
> find me @ madame-lacroix on tumblr!


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